


How Kurt Hummel Found a Baby, Fell In Love, and (Almost) Failed His Vocal Exam

by GossamarGus



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GossamarGus/pseuds/GossamarGus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kurt Hummel walked out of his loft that morning, he had expected to fail his vocal exam.  If only it were that simple.  A Kurt/Blaine AU first meeting, with a hiccup or two thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Special Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Gus, who always loved it when I told him stories.

**I. Special Delivery**

“Late, late, I am _so_ _effing late_!”

Kurt Hummel skidded through the hanging partitions of his bedroom, wide-eyed and panic-stricken, a very stylish slim-fitted vest hanging off one shoulder and a toothbrush poking out the corner of his mouth.  Outside his Bushwick loft window blew a blustery, gray morning; typical for the winter season in New York, and a perfect backdrop to the scene of unbridled terror that was waking up a mere fifty-five minutes before the most important vocal exam of the semester.

“Carmen Tibideaux is going to feed my vocal cords to her _terrier_ if I’m even a minute late,” Kurt rambled to himself, his speech slightly garbled due to the toothbrush still in his mouth.  Hurling himself in front of the hanging mirror next to the loft door, he fumbled with the tie slung haphazardly around his neck, his fingers clumsy and stiff with nerves.

Of all the days to sleep in, it had to be this one.  The end of Kurt’s second semester at NYADA, the prestigious performing arts school, was coming to a close, his last (and, as unlucky happenstance would have it, scariest) exam scheduled for early that morning.  It was a test Kurt had been spending the better part of two months preparing for; a vocal exam that, if performed well, would land him in the top and most coveted of Dean Tibideaux’s performance courses for the rest of his schooling career.  It would be the break Kurt had been yearning for since he had discovered his passion for the spotlight.  A position in Carmen Tibideaux’s advanced class meant first pick for all future Winter Showcases and Spring Recitals; it meant being placed on audition lists and rubbing elbows with big Broadway names; it meant gaining recognition of being one of the most talented, the most promising, most _elite_ students attending the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts.  Acing this exam would not just open doors for Kurt: it would blast down the entire wall.  It would be a step that much closer to his lifelong dream of seeing his name in lights – a dream that was now dangerously close to never coming true, all because he had woken up late.

So late, in fact, that he had had to forgo his entire morning routine, a sacrifice he knew would wreak absolute havoc on his pores later.  But it was too late for him to worry about it now.  There had barely been enough time for him to dress, much less shower and cleanse; he could forget about grabbing a bagel to munch on the train, as those precious few seconds had already been used up trying to find an appropriate “please don’t flunk me” tie which, hello, priority; and all that did not even begin to encompass the travesty that was his hair …

Which Kurt had only now just seen.  “Oh my god, I look like an electrocuted hedgehog.”  With a grimace, he abandoned the tie and fruitlessly tried to arrange his hair into a more presentable mess.  Half-dead woodland creature was a difficult look to pull off, one that required eye-liner and very specific shoe wear, two things for which Kurt had _absolutely no time for_.

Glancing over to the kitchen clock, Kurt caught the time and swore.  Forty-seven minutes until his test, and the NYADA campus was twenty-two miles from the loft.  If Kurt didn’t leave soon, it was going to take a miracle for him to get to school in time to warm up properly.

A final swipe to his hair, and Kurt was now frantically searching for his coat.  “I swear to all that is holy I will throw myself in front of a bus before I flunk out of the school of my dreams,” he told himself, his voice going shrill and his words accelerating as his nerves continued to grow.  “God I’m going to wind up the most fashionable street-busking _hobo_ in New York, all because of that one last Project Runway episode I just _had_ to watch last night, and – you!”

One of Kurt’s roommates had emerged from her own curtained-off portion of the apartment, looking infuriatingly put together in her work uniform and flats, the very picture of well-rested.  She paused on her way to the kitchen and raised a sculpted eyebrow when Kurt jabbed his toothbrush at her.  “I know you’re the one who turned off my alarm last night, Satan, and I want you to know that retribution will be swift and dire.”

Santana Lopez looked remarkably unconcerned by Kurt’s threat.  “Oh please, Hummel,” she yawned, stretching her arms above her head and winking salaciously when her girlfriend, who had followed her from the bedroom wearing an identical outfit, gave an appreciative wolf-whistle at the display.  “I was doing us all a favor.  Obviously you could use the sleep, I mean, I’m sure by now Google Earth has an entire satellite dedicated to honing in on the puffiness under your eyes –” Kurt sucked in a horrified breath and scrambled back to the mirror – “and if I’m being frank with you, Kurt, which I know you appreciate, since you’re constantly up my ass about ‘open communication’,” she emphasized, air-quotes and all, “and ‘keeping the peace for the sake of the loft’, and of reminding me just how reluctant you were to even let me move in here in the first place …”

Worst decision of his life, Kurt thought wrathfully to himself, pressing and pulling at the skin above his nose and shooting a glare at his roommate’s reflection.  Subjecting himself to high doses of the same girl who spent the entirety of their high school career chanting “pear hips” whenever he walked past, just so he could dedicate more money to his scarf budget, had been a definite low point; right up there with drinking rubbing alcohol, and wearing those silver Lady Gaga heels to public school.

“… But if I had to wake up one more morning listening to the sound of your sordid and disturbing mating call –”

Kurt whirled back around to face her.  “‘Good Morning, Good Morning,’ is a seminal classic, how dare you imply otherwise you uncultured _she-devil_ …”

“– then I would be forced to go on a murderous rampage and bludgeon all the furry little rodents taking residence in this city,” Santana continued blithely, acting as though Kurt had not spoken at all.  Her gaze rose a few inches, and she smirked.  “Starting with the family of voles that’s clearly building a nest in your hair.”

Kurt was going to end her.  After he inevitably failed his exam and flunked out of NYADA, he was going to come home, eat an obscene amount of Chunky Monkey, then throw Santana off the fire escape and feed her non-synthetic remains to Carmen Tibideaux’s dog.  He was going to run gleefully through the streets, her extensions streaming behind him like a banner of triumph.  He was –

“I think what she’s trying to say,” Santana’s girlfriend Dani stepped in; clearly she had identified the look in Kurt’s eye as _I am going to bleed the life from your girlfriend and do it very very slowly_ , and was trying to diffuse the tension; “is that she’s sorry for touching your alarm, she’ll never do it again, and break a leg with your test, because she’s sure you’ll do great.  Right, Santana?”

Kurt and Santana both rolled their eyes and scoffed, because _chyeah, right_ – but Dani had crossed her arms and was now gazing pointedly at her girlfriend.  Kurt had to give her props; for a cute little blonde guitar player she sure knew how to stare someone down.  Apparently even Santana “Lima Heights Adjacent” Lopez was not wholly immune, for it only took a few seconds of feigned interest in her nails before Santana finally rolled her eyes again, muttered, “Yeah, sure, whatever,” and made a retreat into the kitchen.

“I’m not done with you yet, Lopez!” Kurt hollered after her, to which she responded testily, “Like you could even _begin_ to handle all this!”

Fuming, but pressed for time and acutely aware of the fact, Kurt located his coat, flung his bag over his shoulder, and hastened to the door.  “I know some nice, wholesome girls who’d be interested in getting your number,” he told Dani, making sure his voice carried when he added, “In case the smell of brimstone ever gets to be too much!”

Santana yelled back something vulgar in Spanish. 

“I mean it, Santana!” he said, as Dani smiled and winked at him before following after her girlfriend.  “We’re not done with this conversation.”  He unlatched the large, sliding metal door and glanced back over his shoulder just in time to catch Santana flipping an unconcerned hand in his direction.  “When Rachel gets back from Ohio we are all going to sit down and have a very serious discussion about the importance of not being a callous, self-centered harpy and going into our roommates’ private, sectioned-off are _aahhh_ s!”

There was the sound of breaking dishes behind him, as well as some very creative cursing followed by an aggravated, “What the _hell_ , Hummel?” but Kurt didn’t respond.  He was too busy staring blankly down at the thing he had nearly tripped over on his way out the door.

His press for time momentarily forgotten, it took Kurt a few seconds to realize what precisely it was he was looking at.  When it finally clicked, his mouth slowly dropped open.

Santana appeared beside him, shoulders vibrating with her irritation.  “I swear Hummel, there had better be an amazing pair of boobs jiggling around out here somewhere, because I can’t think of anything else that would warrant such a terrified, ear-splitting screech from you.”  She glanced up and down the hallway and, when no spectacular rack presented itself to her, scowled.  “Figures.  Well, you can do the honors and inform Berry of her broken teapot when she comes home, because I sure as hell am not subjecting myself to …”  She trailed off as her eyes caught sight of the object lying innocuously at Kurt’s feet.  Her expression was as blank as Kurt’s when she asked, “What the hell is that?”

“That,” Kurt breathed, eyes wide, his bag strap clutched tightly in hand, “is a baby.”  

Or at least, that’s what Kurt thought it was.  It was hard to tell what precisely the white-and-pink car carrier actually contained; for all Kurt saw, it could be nothing more than a pile of fuzzy, white blankets.

There was a moment of silence as Santana slowly absorbed the situation.  “I can see that it’s a baby,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she peered up and down the hallway again, as though expecting the perpetrating baby-abandoner to jump out unexpectedly and reclaim it.  She looked back down at the carrier distrustfully.  “What I want to know is why it’s on our doorstep.”

“Maybe it was left at the wrong apartment?” Kurt suggested, though he seriously doubted that to be the case, considering their neighbors consisted of an eighty-year-old cat hoarder on one side, and what Kurt strongly suspected to be a meth lab across the hall.  “Or maybe it’s not even a baby.  Maybe it’s a practical joke.  Oh my god.”  His eyes went wide as the thought occurred to him, and he grasped Santana’s wrist in sudden excitement.  “What if we’re being Punk’d?”

They stared at each other for a beat, then glanced up and down the hall again, this time searching for any potential hidden cameras.

“I think we’re too poor to be Punk’d,” said Santana, when no good-looking celebrity host was forthcoming.  Kurt had to agree, as disappointing as the prospect was. 

The pile of blankets moved.  Kurt and Santana both took a hasty step back.

“It moved, it moved!”  Kurt winced both at the shrillness in Santana’s voice so close to his ear, and at the half-inch nails now digging painfully into his forearm.  Santana was staring down at the baby carrier, wide-eyed and wary.  The blankets moved again, and she jumped, clutching Kurt’s arm even tighter.  “Jesus, Hummel, do something!”

Kurt stared at Santana, bewildered.  “What d’you want me to do, sing at it?”

“I don’t know!”  Santana was flapping her hand at him again, a habit she had that irritated Kurt on almost a primal level.  “You’re the maternal one here, I figured it was ingrained into your ovaries or something …”

Kurt cut her a look.  “Watch it, Lopez.”

“I’m just saying …”

“What’s going on out here?”  The voice came unexpectedly from behind them and, though they would vehemently deny it later, Kurt and Santana both grabbed each other and shrieked.

This was a mistake.  Before either of them could calm their hearts long enough to stammer out a response to Dani’s question (who had heard Santana’s earlier yell, and decided to investigate), there came a low, burbling cry from the baby carrier.  Dani, who had been watching the two roommates in both amusement and mild concern, looked down.  She frowned.

“Is that a baby?”

Kurt and Santana glanced at each other before Kurt answered, “We were just discussing the possibility of it being a reality television gag, actually.”

“Whose is it?” Dani asked, her frown deepening as the pitiful whimpers and gurgles grew louder.

“Well,” Sanatana began slowly, and Kurt noticed her side-eyeing him, “three people live here, and as many doubts as I’ve had about Berry and her man hands, I don’t actually think she’s capable of impregnating anybody, so that leaves …”

Kurt knew what she was implying immediately, and he bristled with indignation.  “Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped at her, nearly spluttering in his outrage.  “In case you forgot, I’m the only one here who doesn’t actually have sex with women!”

Or at all, if truth be told, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to admit _that_.

By now the whimpers had turned into full-blown cries.  High, trembling wails filled the hallway as the blankets moved around fitfully.  A tiny, mitten-covered fist popped up from the carrier and waved around; Kurt and Santana reared away from it, clutching at each other’s shoulders.

Looking thoroughly amused, and also a little embarrassed on their behalf, Dani pushed past them and knelt down next to the carrier.

“What’re you –?”  Santana stared at her girlfriend’s back, her expression as amazed as it was horrified.

“Well, you two weren’t about to do anything,” Dani shot over her shoulder, “and I couldn’t just let her keep crying.  Could I, sweetie?”  She cooed as her hands reached into the baby carrier and lifted a pink, squirming bundle from its depths.  She stood up, cradling the baby carefully in her arms, her earlier frown smoothing out into a warm, gentle smile. 

“Hello there, pretty girl.  What’re you doing in such a big city all by yourself, hmm?  Where’s your mama?”  Dani walked the baby, who had quieted significantly after being picked up, over to Kurt and Santana for a closer look.  Kurt peered down at the tiny red face – almost completely obscured due to the pink bunting bag the baby was encased in – and saw wide, watery blue eyes staring back up at him.

It was kind of cute, Kurt could admit.  In a wrinkly, naked mole-rat sort of way.

“She can’t be very old, she weighs barely anything,” Dani was saying, hefting the baby up and down in her arms and letting out a laugh of delight when it gurgled up at her.  Kurt and Santana watched in varying states of appalled as Dani smooshed her face up against the baby’s, laughing again when a snowsuit-clad arm bopped her on the nose.  “Oh my god, that’s so precious.  You can’t be more than a few weeks old, can you, sweet pea?  No you can’t, no you can’t!”

She was very clearly taken in.  She looked positively giddy to be standing there holding a baby.  Kurt pitied her immensely. 

Dani looked over at him and Santana.  “There’s no note or baby bag or anything,” she said.  “Think we should call somebody?”

Santana stayed silent, as though her ability to speak had momentarily left her.  The urge to ask whether the city offered abandoned baby pick-up was on the tip of Kurt’s tongue, but he held back; he had the strongest suspicion that Dani would not appreciate him comparing the baby to an old mattress.

“Well, we have to do something, we can’t just leave her in the hallway,” Dani continued, when no other option was offered.  She rocked the baby absent-mindedly, her hand patting its bottom comfortingly as she thought.  “Is Child Protective Services open this early?”

“Hmm, probably,” Kurt agreed distractedly, as he pulled out his phone and blanched at the time.  Thirty-nine minutes and counting, Christ he was _not_ wearing boots conducive to running.  Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Kurt clapped his hands together.  “Well!  You two seem to have the hang of everything.  You don’t need little old me standing in the way, so I’m just gonna,” he gesticulated vaguely down the hall, encouraging smile fixed firmly in place, “get out of your hair.”

Santana, who had been standing unnaturally still ever since her girlfriend picked up the baby, in an instinctual pose one normally adopts after they have sensed imminent danger approaching, snapped out of her stupor at the sound of Kurt’s clap.  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

Kurt was slowly backing away from her, speaking stiffly through his smile: “I told you, I have my vocal exam.”

But Santana shook her head at him.  “I don’t think so, Hummel,” she said, grabbing the strap of Kurt’s bag when he tried to make a break for it down the hallway, and yanking him back.  “ _You’ve_ got to deal with the infant, because _we_ –” she indicated herself and Dani – “have to be at the diner in half an hour.”

Kurt’s eyes widened.  Him, left with the baby?  _On his own_?  “Oh no.  No, no, no, you are _not_ dumping the kid on me, Santana Lopez.  It’s not my fault it was left on our doorstep!”

Santana’s hands migrated to her hips, her expression stony.  Danger, Will Robinson.  “So it’s automatically my problem because, what?  I have a vagina?”

Kurt suppressed a shudder.  Every conversation with her it never failed, Kurt swore he knew enough about female genitals by this point he could teach a gynecology class.  “God, Santana, not everything is about your vagina, you can be so … no, you know what, forget it.”  He folded his arms, one hand cupping his elbow, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.  He could practically hear the clock ticking his future away; his patience was non-existent at this point. 

“I don’t have time to argue with you right now,” he told her, still rubbing wearily between his eyes, “just like I don’t have time to call and then wait however long it takes for social services to show up.  I have the most important vocal test _of my life_ happening in thirty-five minutes; if I miss it, I might as well fly back to Ohio tonight, because my dreams will be ruined forever!”

Santana crossed her arms, staunchly unmoved.  “And we’ll be forced onto the streets, after Gunther fires us and we don’t have enough money to pay rent.”

Kurt sighed expressively to the ceiling.  “Why can’t you just take it with you?”

“Are you kidding me?” Santana scoffed.  “You know Gunther, I bring the kid in with me and it’ll end up sold on the black market, just like my yeast-i-stat!”

That was a very valid point.  “Well, just – just drop it off at a police station on your way into work, then …”

Santana actually snorted at him.  “Yeah, right.  Like I’m going to _willingly_ walk into a police station after that incident with the Salvation Army Santa last month.”

Of course, how could Kurt forget he was living with a _fugitive_?  God, why did he ever agree to room with girls; they were all freaking nuts.  “I don’t have the time, Santana, you take it –”

“No, _you_ take it –!”

“Could you both stop calling her an ‘it’?” Dani interjected, sounding exasperated as she watched Kurt and Santana argue back and forth, their arms crossed, standing so close together their noses nearly touched.  “Seriously, she’s a baby, not a child-eating clown.”

“Huh?”  Sufficiently distracted from their glowering contest, Kurt and Santana both looked over in time to watch Dani’s expression turn decidedly soppy as she smiled down at the baby in her arms and sighed, “Personally I think she looks like a ‘Delilah’ …”

In all his years of knowing her, Kurt had never seen Santana move so quickly.  “Okay, darling,” she said, and the calmness in her tone was belied by the way she all but snatched the baby out of Dani’s hands.  The smile she wore looked almost painful.  “That’s enough baby-lesbian bonding for one day.  Here you go, Hummel –”  Santana pushed the pink bundle forcibly into Kurt’s arms, who protested wildly even as he awkwardly cupped the baby to his shoulder.  “As much fun as playing Three Gays and a Baby has been, we’ve gots to go.”

“What – but I … Santana, you can’t just –!”  Kurt watched, helpless, as Santana grabbed Dani’s arm and hauled her down the hallway, parting with a smug, “Finders keepers, Hummel.  You found it, you deal with it!”

“That does not apply to this situation and you know it, Santana!” Kurt yelled furiously after her retreating figure, which she ignored.   “You didn’t even grab your coat, you coward!”  Still nothing.  Kurt scowled.  “Your ass looks humungous in that skirt, and not in a good way!”  Santana flipped him off without looking back. 

“But I’ve never even held a baby before!” he called out desperately, but it was no use.  The two girls disappeared into the elevator at the end of the hall, Dani calling out a helpful “Just make sure you support her neck!” before the doors clanged shut between them.

Kurt stood rooted to the spot, gaping after the girls, shock buzzing faintly in his ears.  They left him.  They actually just _left him_.  Him, Kurt Hummel, a guy whose only interaction with young children had been with a second cousin’s four-month-old mouth-breather, who had taken one look at Kurt and immediately hollered his bald little head off.  It was like a sixth sense they had about him; babies didn’t _like_ Kurt, which suited him just fine, since he personally had never seen the appeal of screaming, kicking, orifice-oozing, silk-shirt ruining mini-humans anyway.

But how hard could it be?  It wasn’t like he was making a lifelong commitmentor anything.  Hell, he’d seen the movies.  All he had to do, really, was make sure it – _she_ – didn’t roll down a hill or get eaten by a troll or something before he managed to hand her over to the proper authorities.  He didn’t have to worry about – about diaper rashes, or choking hazards, or genetically mutated baby food or whatever the hell else it was that parents were constantly freaking over and writing books about. 

“I can do this,” he said to himself, and he could.  He was Kurt Hummel.  He flourished in high-stress situations.  He graduated from McKinley High School and lived to tell the tale.  He studied theater and watched _Bravo TV_.  Hell, his best friend was Rachel Berry.  He _lived_ for this sort of dramatic plot twist.  If he could handle a Berry Gold Star Meltdown the same week as a PMS’ing Santana (which he had, on three memorable occasions), then he could handle this. 

There was no need to panic, he reminded himself firmly.  It was simple.  He just needed to find the nearest police station, drop her off, and then book it to campus.  How far out of his way could it be, really?  This was _Bushwick_ , for Christ’s sake.  A simple Google search would point him in the right direction, and then he could …

But wait.  What if he looked suspicious?  What if they asked questions?  What if they _detained_ him?  What if – Good God, what if they put him in one of those garish orange jumpsuits and shipped him off to Sing Sing?  Was that a thing that still happened?  Would they suspect him of being the culprit baby-abandoner?  Would he be allowed his one phone call?  _What if he wasn’t allowed his one phone call?_

Could they even arrest him if they thought he was the father?  God, it figures the one time the stereotype would actually work in his favor, and it had to be on the day he looked one popped collar away from captaining a lacrosse team.

As wrapped up as he was in his building anxiety, it took Kurt a few moments to notice that something was squirming against his shoulder.  Once he realized the baby was starting to fuss again, his heart thudded uncomfortably against his Adam’s Apple as his panic swelled.

“Oh no, no no, shh.  Shh, please don’t freak out,” he said, fumbling his grip on the satiny fabric of the bunting bag as he maneuvered the baby into both hands, holding her at arm’s length so he could properly see her.  The baby’s face was red; her eyes were squinched shut, her forehead wrinkled in obvious distress.  Her lower lip trembled as she made tiny, pathetic little whimpers with each breath.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, shhh, that’s it.”  Kurt jiggled his arms up and down awkwardly, bouncing the baby stiffly, his elbows locked as he tried to settle her down without having any clue how to go about doing that.  This, he imagined, was how people looked handling objects that had the tendency to explode unawares, and he was suddenly very thankful for anti-social neighbors who never seemed to leave their apartments, guaranteeing him no eye-witnesses to his glaring incompetence.

“There we go, you like that, right?  Oh, please don’t freak out on me,” he begged, when her lip gave a particularly tremulous wobble.  “Because I’m a sympathetic crier, so if you get hysterical then I’ll get hysterical, which will probably make you even more hysterical, which will just turn this into a vicious never-ending circle of tears –” 

Kurt cut himself off abruptly.  He was trying to reason with an infant.  He seriously needed to get out more.  

On the plus side, it seemed to have worked.  The whimpering was subsiding.  Kurt breathed a sigh of relief as the baby’s face gradually relaxed, blue eyes slowly blinking open to fix steadily with his own.  For a while they stood like that, alone in the empty hallway.  Staring at each other, silently sizing the other one up.

“This isn’t so bad,” Kurt murmured to himself, at the exact same moment the baby’s head did an alarming wobble and tipped ungainly forward.  “Holy, Mary Mother of –!”

So that’s what Dani meant about supporting her neck.  Good to know.

Shit, he was so screwed.


	2. Meet-Cutie

The cab driver kept glancing into his rearview mirror.  Kurt studiously avoided eye contact.

It had taken him approximately six minutes to decide to take the baby with him to NYADA.  His imagination had run a little wild with the whole “becoming a felon” scenario, and in the end he had felt more comfortable risking possible jail time afterhe took his exam.  He figured that way he’d have his entire winter break to make bail, and to remove any incriminating tattoos relating to the gang affiliation he would inevitably be forced to take up in order to avoid being shanked, or worse.  Becoming someone’s wife in the slammer wasn’t legally binding, was it?  Hmm, he’d better Google that.

Okay, so maybe his imagination had run more than a little wild, although if things worked out then he had a pretty kick-ass premise for next semester’s script-writing class.  Let it never be said that Kurt Hummel was not dedicated to his craft.

Another two minutes had been devoted to weighing the pros and cons of taking a baby onto the subway.  It had been a difficult decision, as one cab ride downtown was costly enough to leave Kurt eating saltines and ketchup for the rest of the month, but in the end he went with the cab.  He knew how vicious people could get when encased within a small space next to a squalling child, and while for the moment she was blessedly quiet, Kurt was not prepared to take any chances with little Miss Wobbly Lip.

Besides, he could take a hit to his grocery money, since he knew where Rachel stashed her not-so-strictly-vegan snack foods. 

Three more minutes to hail down a cab, four minutes (on the meter, curse New York cabbies) spent trying to figure out how the blasted car seat worked, and here Kurt now sat, ten minutes until his exam, stuck in traffic with a grumpy baby, and a cab driver who kept making eyes at him through the mirror.

He was going to _murder_ Santana.

They were stopped at a light a few blocks away from campus.  The cab driver, an older man with graying hair and a heavily lined face, was drumming his hands on the steering wheel and humming along to the song on the radio.  Kurt really wished he wouldn’t.

“So,” the cab driver said in a deep smoker’s rasp, and Kurt saw his eyes flicker to the rearview mirror again.  “Quite a handful you’s got there.”

Kurt, who was preoccupied trying to figure out where he was going to stash the baby once he actually made it to school, gave a noncommittal sort of hum.  Great.  Of all the cab drivers in New York, Kurt managed to flag down the chatty one.  How terrific.

There were odd snuffling sounds coming from the baby carrier.  Kurt peered into the blankets, and saw that the baby’s face was scrunched up again.  Fantastic, now what?

“Sounds hungry,” the driver commented.  “Those snuffling noises,” he clarified, catching Kurt’s nonplussed expression through the rearview mirror.  He nodded his head at the baby carrier.  “They make that sound when they wanna be fed.”  The cabbie’s shoulders shifted as he chortled, “Gotta tell ya, buddy, you’re a braver man than me, leaving home without a bottle handy.”

Kurt’s stomach began to sink.  She was hungry?  What was he supposed to do about that?  He didn’t know the first thing about feeding babies, let alone have anything he could give her.

“How old’re you, anyways?” the cabbie asked, clearly catching a whiff of Kurt’s impending hysteria.  “Little young to have one that small, don’t you think?”

“Eighteen was a blurry year for me,” Kurt mumbled tersely, not even close to being in the mood to discuss the eventful morning he had had so far.  He poked a finger uneasily through the blankets and immediately snatched it back when the fussing intensified.

The cab driver chuckled.  “Eh, I know all about that,” he conceded, just as the light turned green and a car honked behind them.  “Ah, blow it outta your rear, ya friggin’ tourist!

“I’ve got five, myself,” the cabbie continued, after he was done hurling abuse at the impatient driver.  “All grown and flown the nest by now.”  They came to another red light, and the driver twisted around in his seat, grinning at Kurt through the partition glass.  “Enjoy the time you’ve got with her now, son, ’cause it flies right by.”

Kurt stared at the man.  This was quickly turning into the most bizarre morning of his life.

“Um, thanks,” he said eventually, glancing through the windshield and perking up when he recognized one of NYADA’s performance buildings.  “Actually, you know what, this will be fine right here.” 

He unbuckled his seatbelt and began fumbling with the one looped around the baby carrier.  He had discovered a serious design flaw, Kurt thought with frustration, as he fought to unthread the belt.  Jesus, how did parents get anywhere in a timely manner?  This was completely ridiculous.

A few well-placed tugs, and the baby carrier was free.  Panting a little, Kurt wrested baby and car seat out of the cab, grabbed his bag, then leaned down to talk through the unrolling passenger window.  “How much do I owe you?”  He went to pull out his wallet, but the cab driver waved him off.

“On the house, kid,” he told Kurt, grinning up at him as Kurt shot him a disbelieving look.  “I remember how it was, having one so young.  Keep your money, son, and buy that pretty little girl something nice instead, how ’bout that?”

“I – I will,” Kurt stammered, his feelings toward the gruff cabbie warming considerably even as his guilt gnawed uncomfortably at him.  “Thank you.”  He picked up the baby carrier, ensured his bag was secure, and waved at the man.  “Thanks again!”

Running while holding a baby carrier, Kurt realized, was much easier said than done.  Probably would have been easier if he wasn’t trying to warm up his voice at the same time. 

“Mi, mi-mi-mi mi, mi-mi-mi mi, mi-mi- oops, sorry!”  A well-dressed lady pushing a sweater-wearing bichon frise in a stroller gave a scandalized shout when Kurt almost bowled her over with the car seat, but Kurt did not slow down.  He was a man on a mission.  He wove between business commuters with cell phones glued to their ears, ducked around crazy-eyed college students holding triple-shot venti lattes, deftly avoided a homeless person who offered to trade the baby for a jug filled with an unidentified amber liquid.  He tore up the stone steps to the performance building, hurled himself through a revolving door, and all but sprinted down the hallway leading to the auxiliary stage, pausing just briefly enough to check the time on his phone.  Three minutes left.  Shit. 

People were sending him weird looks, but Kurt didn’t care.  Boots skidding across the tiled floor, he threw himself around a corner and immediately crashed into a person coming the other way.

“Oof!”

“Ow!”

“Oh my god, are you okay?”  Two hands gripped firmly onto Kurt’s waist, steadying him before he could topple over backwards.  Kurt nearly poked the other person in the eye as he flailed a hand, finding purchase on a shoulder and holding on for dear life as his other arm reeled away from him, physics keeping the baby carrier in motion and nearly wrenching his arm out of its socket as he struggled to not bring all three of them to the ground.

Wow, that was intense.  Oh, shoulders should not be bent that way, _ow ow ow ow_ –

Hands were still holding firm to Kurt’s waist as a concerned voice asked again, “Are you all right?” 

Kurt, calling himself six kinds of clumsy as he rotated his shoulder with a wince, felt the back of his neck begin to flush in embarrassment as he replied, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”  _I’m a klutz who’s just pretzeled himself around a complete stranger, but other than that I’m peachy_.  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?  Sorry to just run you over like that, I’m in a bit of a –”  He finally glanced up, caught sight of the face hovering worriedly in front of his own, and all forms of higher brain function promptly deserted him.  “Gah.”

The guy was stunning.  Warm hazel eyes designed to get lost in, dark slickly-styled hair, a face that could sell beef jerky to even the most devout of vegans, all held up by a sturdy compact body covered in a ridiculously well-fitted coat, the impeccably tailored fabric sliding down trim arms to hands that were _still holding onto Kurt’s hips, oh dear lord what was his life._

Kurt gaped uselessly at the stranger holding onto his waist, the very definition of dumbfounded.  The people who had been drawn toward the noise of the collision were tittering to each other, possibly because they recognized Kurt was making himself look like a colossal idiot in front of the cutest person in the building. 

The guy holding onto him seemed to ignore the snickering onlookers easily, his focus solely on Kurt as he asked, “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

Kurt hadn’t heard a word he said; his attention was fixated on Handsome’s shiny pink mouth.  He couldn’t help it, the man was a pretty talker.  _Jesus, Hummel_ , _get a hold of yourself you kinky weirdo_.  “I –”  The guy licked absently at his bottom lip, and Kurt tripped over his own foot.

“Whoa, easy there!”  The guy’s voice was as warm as his eyes, and Kurt felt his amused little chuckle slide through him like honey, warm and sweet and, oddly enough, a bit sticky.  He helped Kurt regain his balance by sliding his hands further up Kurt’s sides and pulling him closer, which was just, you know, _guh_.  “Remember: you walk the boots, not the other way around.”

He had a sense of humor, too.  Oh, he was going to make the best toast at their wedding –

“Thanks,” Kurt blurted out, his face aflame as he desperately beat his imagination into submission.  _If you mention anything about organza ribbon flower arrangements, I swear to all that is holy_ …

Kurt rallied the last vestiges of his dignity the best way he knew how: by making a joke at his own expense.  “You know what they say, new boots and early morning exams do not a graceful entrance make.”  His accompanying laugh sounded more deranged than self-deprecating, and Kurt nearly smacked himself in the face to make it stop.

The handsome stranger didn’t seem perturbed by Kurt’s erratic behavior.  In fact, if the sparkling eyes were anything to go by, he appeared to be enjoying it.  “Been there,” he said amiably, relinquishing his hold on Kurt who, miracle of all miracles, managed not to faceplant onto the ground Bambi-style.  His eyes crinkled into a warm smile as he leaned in loser to add conspiratorially, “Though never with the added bonus of a baby moving at terminal velocity.”

“Hmm?” Kurt breathed dreamily, then blinked.  “Oh.”  He looked down at the carrier he was holding, having momentarily forgotten about its existence.  He was genuinely surprised the baby had stayed relatively quiet throughout the whole ordeal.  “Right.  Yeah, no this – this is definitely a first for me.”

The stranger knelt next to the carrier and waved cheerily into the blankets.  “She is absolutely adorable, by the way,” he told Kurt.  A soft cooing sound answered him, and his face lit up in a way that was, frankly, really unfair.  “Hey there, cutie pie.  You’re a well-behaved little sweetheart, aren’t you?  How long have you had her?”

Kurt was gazing determinedly at the other man’s bent head; he was absolutely not allowing his eyes to wander along the enticingly long expanse of back, down to a promisingly pert, jean-clad – focus.

“Um, about forty minutes?”  The guy squinted up at Kurt, which Kurt met with an embarrassed cringe.  “It’s a long story.”

A door a little way down the hall opened up, and a crisp voice called out, “If Mr. Kurt Hummel is out here, we’re ready for you onstage.”

Just like that, Kurt’s forgotten nerves returned with a vengeance.  “Oh hell, that’s me.”  Sure that his eyes were bugging out in the most unattractive way possible, Kurt gave the stranger at his feet a pained smile.  “I have to go.  Final exams, you know.  Sorry again for maiming you with an infant carrier.”

He was halfway to the door before a voice called out, “Kurt, wait!” and he turned his head in time to watch as the guy jogged over to him.

“Were you planning on taking her onstage with you?” he asked, hitching his school bag higher onto his shoulder and indicating the baby carrier.

Kurt shrugged.  “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” he admitted.  “I, er, may have slept in this morning, so it’s mostly been panicked scrambling to get here without killing one of us and/or an innocent bystander, which mission accomplished if you don’t count almost braining you in the middle of –”

“I could watch her for you, if you wanted,” the guy offered, cutting Kurt’s ramble off.  He held his hand out for the carrier expectantly.

Kurt slid his eyes from the stranger’s open expression down to his extended hand dubiously.  “Uh …”  How many college-aged males in their right mind would willingly stick themselves with an infant for an hour?  None that were sane, that was for sure.  “That’s a very generous offer, um –”

“Blaine,” the stranger supplied, flashing a smile.  “Blaine Anderson."

Oh, that rolled off the tongue nicely.  _Blaine.  Blaine, Blaine, Blaaaiinnnee –_

Kurt cleared his throat; he could feel his ears start to burn, and knew his entire face was not far behind.  “Well thank you, Blaine, but I can’t expect you to –”

“I know what you’re thinking” – something Kurt devoutly hoped not to be the case, because it turned out his mind was a darkly depraved place _–_ “and I’m not a serial baby kidnapper or anything.  Scout’s honor.”

Kurt let out a surprised laugh before he could stop himself.  Blaine seemed pleased by this.  “Look, Kurt,” he began as he took a step closer, “I know you don’t know me at all, and leaving your daughter” – oh, and wasn’t _that_ an egregious assumption Kurt would have to correct as soon as he remembered how conversing like a normal person worked – “with a stranger is probably not on your list of things you planned to do today, but my next exam’s not until this afternoon.  I’ve got a bunch of time to kill between now and then, and if I read any more about tonality and rondo forms I think my head might actually explode –” 

His grin widened when Kurt gave a sympathetic wince.  Music Theory, the most banal of NYADA’s mandatory courses; Kurt remembered well his own experiences with that class.

“C’mon,” Blaine coerced, wiggling his fingers and … was he batting his eyelashes?  Seriously, was he _trying_ to make Kurt fall over again?  “Let me help you out.  We’ll stay right outside the door the whole time, I promise.”

Kurt glanced between the baby and Blaine’s outstretched hand, thinking.  The offer was tempting, but still Kurt hesitated.  On the one hand, this would alleviate him from the trouble of having to explain the baby’s presence on stage, and also give Blaine a reason to hang around longer.  Definite win-win.  On the other hand, it seemed as though Blaine was under the mistaken belief that Kurt was a teenaged father bravely taking on the role of single parent, and Kurt couldn’t decide whether that would ultimately help or hinder him in seeming both alluring and available.

“I can show you my profile on SitterCity if that’ll make you more comfortable,” Blaine wheedled, when Kurt continued to dither.  “I’ve received rave reviews for past kiddie care.  I don’t mean to brag, but there are a fair number of mothers in the greater Columbus area who were very sad to see me move away.”

Blaine was teasing him.  First Kurt found an orphaned baby on his doorstep, then he received a ride from a benevolent New York cab driver, and now he was being teased by an adorably gorgeous former babysitter.  This was his life now.  Kurt was surprisingly okay with that.

“I – oh, all right,” he finally relented, his decision only slightly influenced by the adjudicator clearing their throat pointedly behind him.  He relinquished the baby carrier over to Blaine, who beamed.

“I don’t have anything for you to give her,” Kurt said apologetically, but Blaine waved him off.

“We’ll be fine, we’ll just hang out over there,” he told Kurt, pointing to a bench beneath a window a few feet down the hallway.  “You better get going, before they move on to the next student.  Break a leg!”

“Thanks,” Kurt smiled weakly at him, turned to follow the impatient-looking judge through the door, but spun around at the last moment to say, because he felt like it would seem weird if he didn’t, “Be good for Blaine, uh, honey.”

The look Blaine shot him after he said this made Kurt’s knees wobble almost as much as it made the tight feeling in his stomach clench unpleasantly.

***

Exactly forty-seven minutes later, Kurt exited the stage feeling wrung-out, light-headed, and hopeful he had at least managed to scrape through with a passing grade.  Carmen Tibideaux had made her thoughts on Kurt not being punctual clear by the way she pursed her lips at him, but Kurt had been allowed to sing both of the pieces he had prepared without any interruption, which he decided to take as a good sign.  His sight singing had been deemed “adequate”, high praise coming from the Dean, and while she had taken him to the cleaners with all the scaling and ear testing she made him do, Kurt felt he had held his own remarkably well considering the morning he been dealing with.

Buoyed by the sheer relief he felt, it took Kurt a moment to register the voice calling his name.  A smile slowly spread across his lips when he turned and spotted Blaine waving eagerly from his seat on the bench he had indicated earlier, and it only diminished slightly when he also saw the baby nestled in the crook of his arm.  She was currently divested of her bunting bag and … sucking on one of Blaine’s fingers, _urgh_.

“So …?” Blaine called out, his grin widening as Kurt drew near.  “Did you ace it, or did you ace it?”

“Well, I made it out of Carmen Tibideaux’s clutches in one piece,” Kurt said ruefully as he pulled his bag off his shoulder and sat next to Blaine on the bench.  “I call that a win.”  His eyes slid down to the baby drooling all over Blaine’s hand.  “Was she … okay for you?”

“Hmm?  Oh, yeah, she was great.”  Blaine made a goofy face down at her, seemingly completely unfazed by the baby spit all over his fingers.  “We spent some time looking out the window watching some birds, and then we judged people’s fashion choices as they walked by, didn’t we, pumpkin?”  Blaine shot a wink at Kurt.  “We both agree that while dressing vintage can be both bold and whimsical, the whole Hipster movement needs to just end already.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow at him.  “A fashion-forward manny?  Well, color me impressed.”

“Ha, _not_ a manny, thank you very much.  Just really good with kids.”

“I can see that,” Kurt said dryly, eyeing the finger the baby was currently gnawing on.

Blaine followed Kurt’s gaze and chuckled almost bashfully.  “Yeah, I think she might be hungry.”

Was Kurt the only one who couldn’t tell when a baby was hungry?  Seriously, when did this information become common knowledge?  “And so you thought sacrificing your finger was the way to go?”

“It works every time!” Blaine defended.  “See how content and quiet she is?  You would be terrible in a zombie apocalypse, by the way,” he accused, nudging Kurt’s shoulder with his own; Kurt’s stomach gave a giddy little flip at the contact.  “You aren’t even prepared for the most basic of baby disasters.”

“Yeah, well …”  This was the part where he came clean and explained the situation to Blaine.  Kurt knew that, and he was fully prepared to admit he had no idea who the baby was, that she had come into his possession only because one of his roommates was a total asshole, and that he planned on heading to the nearest police station once they left the building … just as soon as he figured out how to make it sound less like the plotline to a cheesy comedy from the late eighties.

They sat together in silence for a bit, Blaine playing with the baby and Kurt trying to not-so-obviously watch him.  It was a few more minutes after that when Blaine turned to Kurt, looking almost contemplative, as though he was debating whether or to tell him something.

“Can I just say how impressed I am with you?” he said earnestly, startling Kurt so much he nearly fell off the bench.  “Because I am.  Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but the utmost respect for young people who take different paths when faced with the lifelong task of raising a child, but when someone steps up and wholeheartedly commits to being a parent – so much so that they bring their daughter with them to their college exams,” Blaine nudged their shoulders together again, only this time Kurt wasn’t feeling nearly as giddy by the contact, “it just really, really blows me away.”

Kurt watched, dumbstruck, as Blaine very gently detached the baby from his finger, then lifted her up so she was eye-level with him.  “You, little miss, are a very lucky girl,” he told her in a serious voice, his face breaking into a grin when the baby burbled at him in answer.  He kissed her on the forehead and handed her over to Kurt, who had been so stunned by Blaine’s little speech that he reached for the baby automatically, only snapping out of it when she immediately started to cry.

“Oh,” Blaine pouted sympathetically, reaching out and chucking the baby gently on the chin.  “Don’t worry, sweetie pie, I’m sure if you ask nicely your daddy will let us have another playdate.”  Kurt couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could see a bit of a blush creeping over the collar of Blaine’s coat.

Kurt knew what he should say.  He absolutely knew that he had to tell Blaine the truth, that he did not know who the baby belonged to, that before today he had never held a baby, that he was so Fabulous with a capital F there was no conceivable way this baby could be his.

Kurt knew exactly what he should say.  He knew unequivocally, no doubt whatsoever, that he needed to bite the bullet and tell Blaine, “As nice as you’ve been and as gorgeous as you are, this baby is in fact not mine, but maybe you could accompany me to the police station so they won’t arrest me when I drop her off?”  He should say that, and definitely, totally, absolutely not, “Does six o’clock at our place work for you?”

So why Kurt left the performance building five minutes later with a bundled baby in hand and Blaine’s cell number texted to his phone with an added _see you at six :)_ was, frankly, anybody’s guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The (one-sided) conversation between Kurt and the cabbie was based on a real-life event that happened to me when I had my infant nephew with me. I know it seems highly unrealistic, a New York cab driver giving both a free ride and sage advice to a nineteen year old with a newborn, but my own experience is proof that it can happen. Compassion can be found in the most unlikely of places. The advice Kurt received was something the cab driver told me, and it has stuck in my mind all these years later.


	3. The Gingham Monstrosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this so far! Updates are going to come more quickly, now that I have some extra time on my hands. I've also pinpointed exactly how many chapters this fic is going to be, which is a definite achievement on my end.

“Okay,” Elliott said slowly, “explain it to me again.  Only this time, try to sound more sane.”

Kurt glared across the clothes’ rack he was perusing.  “Hilarious, coming from the man who named his alter-ego ‘Starchild’.”

Elliott returned his glare with a flatly unrepentant expression.  “You’re the one who stole a baby to impress a guy, sweetheart.  Your diversionary sarcasm will not fly with me today.”

Kurt flapped his hands in a frantic shushing motion.  “Would you keep your voice down?” he hissed, as he glanced furtively around them for any signs of potential eavesdroppers.  “If you could not mention child snatching in the middle of a _baby store_ , oh my god …”

The little second-hand store filled with gently-used clothes and not-so-gently-cleaned baby furniture was, for the most part, completely deserted.  Kurt and Elliott (and the baby, god forbid Kurt ever _not_ be reminded about her blessed presence) were the only inhabitants in the front area of the shop.  The two employees, who had openly stared when Kurt and Elliott first walked in, had retreated into the back after Elliott picked up a suspiciously long, tube-like contraption from a nearby display, and blithely asked them whether baby enemas had become a new trend.

(Upon closer inspection Kurt and Elliott had discovered the product was actually a manual nasal aspirator; as if that made _Elliott_ the weirdo.  Whatever, let the horrified women hide, Kurt was on Elliott’s side – it totally looked like a baby enema.)

“And I didn’t steal the baby,” Kurt groused, flicking through hideous baby outfit after hideous baby outfit as though they had personally offended him (which was not an exaggeration, dear god did people actually dress their children in these eye sores?).  “She was left at my front door, and I fully intend on giving her over to CPS by the end of the weekend.  There is zero felonious activity involved on my end.”

Elliott ‘hmm’d thoughtfully.  “I really hope I can be there to watch you explain that to a group of detectives while you’re handcuffed to a table.”  He deftly dodged the mustard-yellow bonnet Kurt threw at his head.  “Rude.”

“I regret calling you,” Kurt informed him.  “I regret your friendship, I regret letting you into my band, and I regret those pants you’ve paired with that shirt.”

Elliott sent an ironic sort of look toward Kurt’s unkempt hair; Kurt raised a warning finger before he could comment.  “Do. Not. Even.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Elliott denied, smiling wickedly as Kurt continued to watch him balefully.  “You know,” he continued, pulling out a hanger from the clothes rack and holding up an outfit for Kurt to inspect, which Kurt immediately shot down with a pained grimace, “if it weren’t for me you’d be standing in the middle of Manhattan with a screaming child and no way of shutting her up.  You owe me so big, and oh my god I can’t wait to hold this over your head.”  Elliott’s eyes glazed over dreamily.  “We’re talking Pamela Lansbury solos, Kurt.  _So_ many solos.”

Kurt held in a sigh, not bothering to argue.  Elliott was right, of course.  He was the only person Kurt knew who came into regular contact with infants, having four immensely fertile older sisters who considered him prime real estate in the free babysitting department.  So when Kurt had called him, nearly as hysterical as the hungry baby squalling loudly into his ear, Elliott had hopped on a bus with a shopping bag full of emergency supplies, including a couple bottles of pre-mixed baby formula.  The baby had gulped them down alarmingly quickly, and had been more or less silent ever since, sleeping comfortably in the carrier currently placed on the floor next to Kurt’s feet.

For his part Elliott had seemed surprisingly blasé about the whole ordeal.  Sitting in the Starbucks they had met up in, he calmly fed the baby while he listened to Kurt’s admittedly outrageous explanation.  Kurt had tried not to leave anything out, and had recounted everything from nearly stepping on the baby when he first opened the door, to Santana being charming self-serving Santana, to nearly breaking his neck trying to get to school on time, to _Blaine_ and how endearingly sweet and handsome and _perfect_ he was–

Kurt may have gushed.  Just a bit.

“So instead of telling the truth, you let this Blaine guy believe you’re a devoted single father who thinks setting up playdates-slash- _play_ datesat six o’clock on a Friday night is totally normal parent-y behavior and not at all obvious,” Elliott had surmised, once Kurt finally finished talking.  “And you like this guy so much, you’re willing to potentially incur a criminal record by pretending to look after an abandoned baby that isn’t yours, even when you don’t know the first thing about caring for a newborn.  Correct?”

When Kurt had nodded, red-faced in both embarrassment and shame, Elliott smiled.  "Cool.  So, we going shopping, or what?"

“What about this one?” Elliott asked, pulling Kurt’s focus toward the truly awful, beige-and-brown onesie he was brandishing in front of him.

Kurt eyed the baby outfit disdainfully.  “Are you purposely trying to offend me?”

“These are the options a twenty-dollar clothing budget gets you, Kurt,” Elliott pointed out, replacing the outfit back where he found it and continuing his search.  “Now, if you’re willing to sacrifice your scarf money for next month, we could hit the Baby Gap two blocks over –”

“Bite your tongue.”

Elliott smirked at him.  “This is the best we’ve got, then.  So what d’you think: the paisley sweater with a crocodile flipping us the bird, or terrifying clown dress that will probably give both her and you nightmares?”

He held up both outfits for scrutinizing.  Kurt very nearly wept for humanity.

“Forget it, I can’t do this,” Kurt sighed, stepping away from the clothing rack and staring despondently around the store.  It legitimately hurt his eyes to stare at those clothes for too long.  “No fake-child of mine will be caught wearing one of these monstrosities.”  He thought for a moment, and then it came to him.  “I still have some fabric left over from those bolts Isabelle let me take from the storage room at Vogue.com; I can use that to whip up a few outfits before tonight.”

“Good idea,” Elliott agreed.  He cheerfully abandoned the clothing section before bee-lining it straight for a wall covered in diaper bags.  “Plus it leaves us more money to buy necessities.”

Kurt followed after Elliott, almost afraid to ask.  “Necessities?”

“Well we’ve got clothes covered, and formula; one of my sisters is an extreme couponer, I have a literal pyramid of the stuff in my hall closet, and lucky for you the baby’s way too young to need cereal or baby food yet.  Then there’s about two days’ worth of diapers in the supplies I brought, that should last ’til you come to your senses and hand her over to the proper authorities.”  There was no judgment in what Elliott said, he was just stating facts.  “I can lend you my nephew BJ’s extra stroller and playpen – I know, seriously, that’s what my sister gets for marrying a frat boy – plus I’ve got a few toys and other essentials hanging around my place that’ll make you look less farcical parent, more suave and sexy DILF.”

Elliott rattled all this off with a striking amount of ease.  Kurt, on the other hand, was starting to feel a little dizzy.

“Anything else?” he asked faintly.

“Oh yeah, there’s things like pacifiers and swaddling blankets,” Elliott said, counting off on his fingers, “maybe a couple hats because they always seem to lose those.  You should probably pick up a thermometer in case she gets sick, maybe a diaper mat because I know how you are about your clothes and, just, trust me on this one.  Extra bottles, baby detergent, bibs, and obviously you’ll need a bag to carry it all in.”

Elliott plucked one of the diaper bags off the wall and handed it to Kurt with a wiggle of his eyebrows.  “What d’you think?”

“I think it looks like Mother Goose went on a bender and threw up on this thing,” Kurt muttered, gazing distastefully down at the shiny vinyl exterior, which was covered in cartoon butterflies and little frolicking teddy bears.

“It’s the cheapest one in the store.”

“That’s because it’s also the ugliest.”  Kurt unzipped the top to inspect the interior, and let out a horrified gasp.  “Oh my god, is that actual _gingham_?”

Elliott shook his head pityingly.  “I can’t believe you’re being this picky for a child that’s not even yours.”

“It’s _pea-green and orange_.  Who even does that?”

Elliott was openly laughing at him now.  “Come on, Big Daddy,” he said, picking up the baby carrier and steering Kurt by the elbow over to the other end of the store.  “Let’s catch you a dream guy.”

***

Two frightfully eventful, wallet-emptying hours later, Kurt and Elliott dragged themselves and their caravan of baby supplies over the threshold of Kurt’s loft.

“That,” Kurt panted, dropping his end of the folded up stroller before collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs, bags strewn around his feet, “was hell.”

“It’s your fault you sad, desperate little man,” Elliott moaned, voice muffled from where he had collapsed headfirst onto the couch, the pack-n-play still strapped to his back.  “You’re the one going through all this trouble just to get some.”

Kurt tipped his head backwards and groaned weakly at the ceiling.  “If I could feel my arms, I would throw something at you.”

“If I could feel my anything, I would pretend to care.”  He flopped around for a moment, as though trying to roll over, before giving up and whimpering into a cushion, “ _So_ many solos, Kurt, oh my god.”

Everything ached.  Kurt had been overwhelmed enough when Elliott had merely listed all the items he would need to make his façade look believable; the reality of all that baby equipment, particularly some of the bulkier items, had been difficult to wrap his head around.  Carrying a stroller, a playpen, an assortment of baby paraphernalia, plus the baby herself down from Elliott’s fifth-story apartment to the subway all the way up to his loft, had left Kurt sweaty and exhausted, and his limbs feeling like they were made of jelly.

“How long ’til Mr. Au Pair arrives?” Elliott asked, his face still planted firmly into the couch seat.

“Blaine,” Kurt corrected absently as he fished halfheartedly for his phone; it took more effort than he was prepared to admit to retrieve it from his back pocket.  He swiped the screen to check the time.  “About six hours.”

“Oh good, that means we have time to lay here and die first.”

Kurt rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes.  God, what was he doing?  All this pain and effort, and for what?  A date that wasn’t even technically a date?  Had he completely lost his mind?

“What was I thinking?” Kurt muttered, blinking his eyes at the ceiling as doubt began to creep up on him.  "I can’t do this.”

“Kurt, no,” Elliott said, lifting his head up with a groan and gazing over the back of the couch at him.  “Don’t doubt yourself now.  You can do this.”

But Kurt wasn’t listening.  “Why did I think this was a good idea?”  The panic was rising in him again, he could feel it twisting through his stomach and snaking up into his chest.  He fisted his hands through his hair, yanking almost painfully at the roots as he started to babble.  “I’m a terrible liar, I’ve never told a convincing lie in my life, why did I think lying about something this big was a thing I can do?  I can’t do that, I can’t even lie about my weight on my driver’s license, and _everyone_ lies about that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve been the same weight for six years,” Elliott joked, but when Kurt turned wide, panic-stricken eyes on him, his demeanor grew more serious.  “Come on, Kurt.  You’re one of the most talented guys I know.  You’ve totally got this.  Just think of it as an acting project for one of your courses.”

Kurt stared at Elliott: that was horrible advice; did he not know that was horrible advice?  “You’re a terrible friend,” Kurt accused him; his breaths were coming in sharper as his anxiety rose.  “This is a terrible idea, why haven’t you knocked any sense into me yet?”

“I’m just trying to be helpful –” 

Kurt cut him off.  “Well, stop it!  You shouldn’t be encouraging my crazy!  You should be committing me, because clearly I’ve lost my mind if I’m using _orphaned children_ to pick up men – oh my god.”  Kurt’s mouth dropped in horror as what he said slowly sunk in.  Oh, he was so going to hell.

“You don’t even believe in hell.”  Kurt blinked at Elliott, unaware he had said that last part aloud.  He watched as Elliott heaved himself to his feet with what seemed to be great difficulty.  Slipping the pack-n-play off his shoulders and cracking his back with a pained groan, he shuffled his way over to Kurt, sitting in the chair next to him and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You’re making this out to be a bigger deal than it is,” he told Kurt, and he squeezed his shoulder for emphasis.  “He assumed she was your daughter, you didn’t outright tell him that.  And yeah, not correcting his mistake was maybe not the brightest idea you’ve ever had” – Kurt let out a derisive snort at that – “but it doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person.  I mean come on, look around us, Kurt.” 

He waved his hand over the multitude of baby items littering the table and floor.  “You spent the entire morning spending money you don’t have on things a baby would need.  You’re caring for a child that, as far as we know, doesn’t even have a name.”

Kurt waved his arms emphatically.  "But that makes it even worse!  I haven’t even bothered naming it.”  His eyes widened.  “And I keep calling her an ‘it’!  God, what is _wrong_ with me?”  He slumped forward over the table, his forehead connecting to the wood with a dull _thunk_.  “I’m a monster.”

“A monster would’ve left her out in the cold or dumped her in an alley,” Elliot said firmly.  “You took care of her all morning, you’re _still_ watching her.  Are you doing it in the hopes of bagging a cute guy who might be interested in getting freaky with you?  Yes.”  Kurt snorted again, but he didn’t pull away when Elliott shook his shoulder again, which Elliott appeared to take as permission to continue.  “But the way I see it, you’re promising that little girl some positive attention, and as small an amount as it may be, it’s far more than she’s going to get once social services become involved.”

“That’s not true, Caucasian babies always get adopted right away, even the bald ones.”  But Kurt heard what Elliot said, and hoped it was true. 

He couldn’t really be an awful person, could he, if he was willingly looking after her?  Delaying her from entering the foster system could be considered a positive, right?  It wasn’t like Kurt was planning on ignoring her, or – or not feeding her or letting her cry.  He wasn’t about to let her get hurt.  Yes, he was a little awkward around her, but who in his position wouldn’t be?  He was a nineteen-year-old, broke student who could barely feed himself, let alone another person.   _He_  wasn’t the one who had left her on a doorstep.  Whoever had abandoned her, they were the bad guy in this scenario, not Kurt.

And Blaine.  Blaine had been so good with her; he had been attentive and sweet, had known what she needed, and handled her so gently.  Was it such a bad thing, that Kurt wanted to see more of that interaction, to take in more of the cute boy with the warm eyes and glittering smile?

Kurt hated the thought of lying to him – not exactly a promising start for any relationship, platonic or otherwise – but who was to say he had to?  Technically, he hadn’t yet.  He had failed to correct Blaine’s assumptions, true, but Kurt could easily write that off as being distracted by his final.  There was still plenty of time for Kurt to clear the whole issue up.  He could do it tonight, even.  He could do it before Blaine even walked through the door.  Hell, he could text him right now.  He could pull out his phone this very moment and write, “Blaine, you’re very handsome and awfully distracting, and I would very much like to date you.  Also, that baby I had with me was not my daughter, but an abandoned child I randomly found in front of my door this morning.  So, dinner?”

Hmm.  That was probably more of a face-to-face type of conversation.

Elliott watched carefully as Kurt finally lifted his face off the table; he was still feeling overwhelmed, and like everything was seconds away from backfiring spectacularly in his face, but his breathing had calmed down significantly, which was a plus. 

He could do this.  He would have to watch what he said and word everything carefully, but he could do this.

“Are we done freaking out yet?” Elliott asked him, looking relieved when Kurt answered with a sheepish nod.  “Good.  Because little girl over there is starting to seriously smell, and you’ll need your wits at full capacity if you’re going to survive your first diaper change.”

Elliott tilted his head to the opposite side of the table, where Kurt had placed the baby carrier when they first arrived.  Kurt sniffed the air cautiously, and promptly gagged.

Grinning broadly, Elliott heaved himself out of his chair and reached for one of the shopping bags.  “You’re going to need this.”

He held out the diaper-changing pad.  Kurt looked from it, to the baby, and back.  Wait, did he seriously expect _Kurt_ to …?

“Come on,” Elliott cajoled, waving the diaper pad in front of him, not even bothering to suppress his delighted smirk.  “Time to man up, Hummel.”

He was enjoying this far too much.  Scowling, Kurt took the diaper pad from him, mostly because he knew Elliott fully expected him to back out.

Five minutes later, Kurt wished he had.

“Oh … oh, _gross_.”  He was sitting in the middle of the floor wearing an apron over his clothes with his shirtsleeves rolled up, diapers and wipes ready at his side.  The baby gazed innocently up at him from her position on the diaper pad, her pink onesie unsnapped, the soiled diaper still on. 

God, the smell was _unbelievable_.

Elliott glanced over from where he was setting up the playpen, and rolled his eyes.  “You haven’t even got her diaper off yet, you wimp.”

“I’m pacing myself,” Kurt retorted, his words coming out slightly choked as he fought desperately not to inhale through his nose.  “This is a delicate situation, all right?”

“It’s easier to whip it off and get it over with,” Elliott advised.  When Kurt remained frozen to the spot, he sighed.  “Seriously Kurt, just do it.  She’ll probably cry if you leave her legs bare for too long.”

Well, Kurt certainly didn’t want that.  He’d had enough crying from her to last a lifetime.  If there was going to be anymore crying today, it was going to come from him.

Delaying a few more seconds to make sure his shirt and pants were completely covered by the apron, Kurt finally braced himself, grabbed one of the Velcro tabs on the diaper, and pulled.

The diaper fell open, and Kurt almost hurled.  “Oh my … oh god, it’s _yellow_."  It was yellow, and it was _everywhere_.  "Elliot, jesus, you didn’t tell me it was going to be yellow, what kind of alien baby is thi – _hrrrrgh_.” 

Kurt clapped a hand over his mouth and turned his face away, his eyes streaming.  Dear god, that wasn’t natural.

Elliott, the bastard, was smirking openly at him, mocking his suffering.  Kurt was going to kill him.  Him and Santana both.  They were dead to him.  _Dead._ “It’s the formula, Kurt,” Elliott explained, his amusement at Kurt’s plight plain on his face.  “What color did you expect it to be?  She doesn’t eat anything else.”

“It looks like _mustard_ , how does that even … ugh, this is so vile.”  Trying not to think too hard about what he was doing and taking shallow breaths, Kurt pulled the diaper out from underneath the baby’s bottom, his stomach churning at the little mess now smeared all over the vinyl of the diaper pad.  _Don’t think of it as poo, don’t think of it as poo_ …

“You look like you’re handling toxic waste,” Elliott observed, as he watched Kurt gingerly roll up the soiled diaper, his face pinched tightly in disgust.

Kurt cut him a furious look.  "For the record, I really hate you right now."  The stench had intensified a hundredfold, and Kurt gagged again while he used a baby wipe to clean up the mess from the baby’s skin.  People willingly signed up for this?  What, were they all _high_?

“This is disgusting,” Kurt complained, grabbing another handful of wipes and wrinkling his nose.  “This is just … ugh, how has the human population not died out yet?”  The baby wriggled one of her legs, and Kurt had to do a tricky wrist maneuver to avoid being smeared.  “Urgh, what was I thinking, no man’s worth this, not even the well-dressed, stupidly gorgeous ones – no no no, don’t kick your feet, _don’t kick your feet_!”

Elliott laughed, loud and long, as Kurt tried desperately to both keep the baby from moving her legs, and not get poop all over himself at the same time.

After, when the play pen had been set up and the baby items stored away, the baby herself wiped, re-diapered, and re-buttoned into her onesie, Elliott disappeared into the bathroom and reemerged with a towel, which he handed over to a shell-shocked, excrement-covered Kurt. 

“Welcome to fatherhood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks for reading.


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